


take a piece of me away

by hargrave



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music Festival, Love at first Bassrush, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Adam Parrish/Blue Sargent, Music Festival Meet Cute sort of, POV Alternating, Past Child Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-24 07:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30068517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hargrave/pseuds/hargrave
Summary: A music festival can be many things. To Ronan Lynch, it’s a place he can unwind, be surrounded by people with no expectation to socialize, and enjoy good music. To Adam Parrish, an obligation to his would-be girlfriend, a sensory nightmare, and a harrowing reminder that he’s not like other people his age.Will a spontaneous meeting between the two change the course of their lives? Or is it an experience forever slotted to a single weekend of revelation and hedonism?
Relationships: Adam Parrish & Blue Sargent, Richard Gansey III & Ronan Lynch, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 20
Kudos: 42





	1. Better Off Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed tags, which may be added as chapters are. Rating may change as well, although the only place to go from here is up ;)
> 
> This fic has a _lot_ of recreational drug use, the type music festivals are known for, and discussion of them. Please keep this in mind before reading.
> 
> Other than that, hey, hello! Welcome to a Pynch meeting at a music festival AU <3

“Fuck.” Ronan’s voice is low, barely a whisper. He rummages hastily through his backpack, pulling all-black clothing out piece by piece, searching for a familiar wooden box. Almost empty and still nothing, panic begins to set in.

Stupid.

Idiot.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Forgetting to grab his supplies for the weekend ahead isn’t an irreparable mistake, just an unfortunate one. He’d been fully prepared, ready to have some good, responsible fun, with everything bought, tested, and divvied out. Now Ronan is fairly certain whatever plan he’d had is fucked.

He’s going to have to do the unthinkable and hope for the best.

With his possessions strewn about the back of the ’73 Camaro, Ronan throws himself into the seat and pulls out his phone.

\-- > _Shithead_ [5:49PM]

The swiftness in which Ronan’s phone vibrates with a reply startles him.

< \-- _Ballsack_ [5:50PM]

\-- > _Mature_ [5:50PM]  
\-- > _Are you here yet?_ [5:51PM]

< \-- _Where’s here? :^)_ [5:53PM]

\-- > _Fuck you. Don’t play dumb._ [5:54PM]

There’s nothing for a few minutes. While he waits, Ronan brings his wrist up to his mouth, digs teeth into the leather straps there, staring out the small window at Gansey struggling alone to set up their tent.

Ronan should probably help. However, it’s far more amusing to watch Gansey fail.

< \-- _A little needy today, aren’t we?_ [5:59PM]  
< \-- _You miss me that much Lynch?_ [6:00PM]

Ugh. The texts make his stomach churn, but Ronan can’t back down. He sucks in a breath, tells himself it’s so he can have a good weekend, he’ll only have to do this once. One and done.

\-- > _Hell no. You know why I’m texting_ [6:01PM]

< \-- _Figured. I’m charging you a premium._ [6:03PM]

\-- > _Whatever_ [6:04PM]

< \-- _Campsite?_ [6:06PM]

\-- > _Good Life_ [6:06PM]

< \-- _Snob_ [6:07PM]

\-- > _Pot meet kettle_ [6:08PM]

More time ticks by, no response, with Gansey becoming increasingly frustrated outside. Nobody would be able to tell, he’s an expert at hiding his less desirable emotions in most situations, a gentleman in nearly every sense of the word. But Ronan can see it, the slight downward curve of his mouth, the furrow of eyebrows causing a crease between them, the stilted way he circles their uncooperative tent.

Gansey is about to explode.

Ronan shoves his clothes into the backpack and climbs out of the Camaro. His returned presence prompts Gansey to look up, releasing a long, irritated breath. “What have you been up to this whole time?”

Not wanting to answer, Ronan offers a shrug instead. He walks over, grabbing a flimsy, retractable pole, and gets to work. With significantly more practice at this kind of thing, Ronan has no problem setting up the decent-sized, single-room tent. Less than ten minutes and their home away from home for the next few days is constructed, standing as a testament that Ronan Lynch is not bad at _everything_. Just most things, especially ones pertinent to respectable careers, societal expectations, and maintaining healthy interpersonal relationships.

Gansey lets out another rush of air, this one notably more relaxed. He grabs a fold-out chair from the trunk and shakes it open, plopping down on it. Ronan does the same, sitting a few feet away, once more chewing on his bracelets as he takes in their surroundings.

An unnerving amount of people are setting up their own colorful campsites, chatting happily away to their companions. Their voices mix with the numerous speakers, each playing different songs, causing an unpleasant cacophony around them. If Ronan were not already used to this, he would find it intolerable, too much stimulation all at once tends to drive him up the wall. Instead, it makes him nervous in a good way, the kind which typically precedes a night of immeasurable fun.

Or, at least, it _should_.

Ronan drops his hand, continuing to observe their environment. He’s looking for dark hair and an appalling fashion sense; all he sees are their neighbors dancing around like the party has already started. Maybe it has.

Fuck. That bastard better get here soon.

“Ronan?”

His name yanks Ronan out of his thoughts, attention flicking to Gansey. “Hm?”

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” Gansey asks, mildly exasperated. Ronan doesn’t respond and after a moment of relative quiet between them, he continues. “I cannot believe you do this by yourself. Isn’t it lonely?”

What a dumb question. Ronan frowns, head shaking. “I’m surrounded by thousands of people, why would I be lonely?”

This seems to cause Gansey some thought. Not a lot, but enough for the wrinkle in his forehead to return.

“You’re deflecting,” he finally says.

“Am not.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone accompany you?”

Ronan quickly realizes where this is going and he doesn't appreciate the trajectory. “You’re here, right?”

“Yes, but – ”

He sucks in a breath through his nostrils, holds it, waits for the inevitable.

“I mean a real companion, Ronan, someone you can share this experience with. A person who truly understands you,” Gansey’s voice is too calm, too soft.

The air glides out through his teeth as a hiss.

Ronan hates it, feeling like he’s getting judged for being perpetually single. He’s barely twenty-two, has his whole life is ahead of him, there’s plenty of time for dating and all the bullshit that comes with it.

The thing is, Ronan isn’t lonely, he’s _lonesome_. They may seem like the same thing but they’re not, the difference is Ronan has enough people in his life – Matthew, Declan, Gansey, Noah – to keep him from being the former. But at night, when it’s only him at the Barns, he lays in bed listening to the sounds of creaking, chirping, cawing, and the ache caused by his self-inflicted isolation begins to creep in.

Alone, lonely, lonesome, whatever.

Besides, the very idea of small talk, deciding if someone is worth his time based on arbitrary guidelines, makes Ronan's skin crawl. If he could skip all the bullshit, he might reconsider.

“Pass,” Ronan replies, staring off again. Somehow there are even more people than there was the last time he checked. “Too much fucking work, not enough reward. Besides, I’m sharing it with you, isn’t that sort of the same concept?”

Gansey regards Ronan with a particular look, one he knows well. It says _you are impossible and difficult beyond measure._ He's quite aware of this already, it's no longer an insult but more a badge of honor. “Not the same at all. Although, I am grateful you finally extended an invitation to me. This is…” He pauses, features scrunching as he glances around. “Well, it’s obviously not my thing, but I am glad I have a chance to try understanding why it’s _yours_.”

“Urgh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just, fucking gross, man,” Ronan says. The affront on Gansey’s face makes him cackle, loud and obnoxious. “Do _not_ get all touchy-feely on me. I don’t think I can handle three days of male-bonding.”

“Right, I’ll do my best impression of you and bottle up all my feelings, will that make you happy?” Gansey asks, his tone heavy with derision.

“Fucking ecstatic, actually.”

There’s a natural lull in the conversation, one caused by Gansey likely lacking the wherewithal to continue and Ronan wanting it to stop anyway. The less they talk about his pathetic love life, the better. It isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s not tense, either. It just is.

Before Gansey has a chance to open his mouth, Ronan spots the easily recognizable dark undercut, white tank top, and gold chain combination approaching. Apparently, he is not the only one, because Ronan can hear the swishing of Gansey’s linen shorts against his chair as he shifts.

“Ronan, please tell me this is a coincidence. Tell me you did not – ”

“Holy shit, look who the fuck it is. Fucking Lynch and his not-gay boyfriend. How’s it going, Dick-Dick-Dick?” The man settles in front of them, grinning so wide it looks like it should hurt. Kavinsky’s probably too coked up to even feel pain if he wanted.

“Fucking Bulgarian bastard,” Ronan growls.

“You rang, I came. Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you.” Kavinsky brings an expensive-looking vape rig up to his mouth, taking a long pull from it.

“Why would you call _him?_ ” Gansey sounds downright appalled.

“I didn’t.”

Technically not a lie, but Gansey is clearly suspicious.

“I texted him,” Ronan continues. “Because I forgot my shit.”

Kavinsky laughs, blowing the sickly-sweet vapor in Gansey’s direction. “You hear that? Lynch _needs_ me, man, I’m the only one who can provide.”

Ronan makes a noise of disdain, eyes practically rolling into his skull. Next to him, Gansey waves a hand in front of his face, attempts futile when Kavinsky repeats the heinous act with more laughter.

“You’re a drug-dealing loser, Joseph,” Gansey says with a glare towards him, shifting it to Ronan next. “And _you’re_ incorrigible.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Ronan shrugs his shoulders. “Save the lecture, Gans, I’ve heard it all from Declan a thousand fucking times.”

“Fuck you too, Dick,” Kavinsky snaps back. “Anyway, Lynch?”

“Anyway,” Ronan repeats.

“Drugs?”

“Yep.”

“Tent?”

“Yep.”

Ronan pushes up from the chair to meet Kavinsky in the tent. Behind him, he hears Gansey mutter, “I cannot believe you, Ronan.”

*

Adam would rather be anywhere other than here.

Well, that’s a bit harsh, because his friends are with him, and his potential future girlfriend also, but he doesn’t understand why they have to be at a music festival of all places. Too many people, too noisy, too hot, too everything all at once.

They could have done literally anything else and Adam is confident he would have a better time.

 _It’s all about the experience_ , Eliot had said in their attempts to convince him. _I’ve heard it’s quite magical_.

 _We can have a fun weekend together!_ Gillian piped in next, seemingly more excited than Eliot. _You, of all people, need to let loose and have a little fun sometimes, Adam!_

He doesn’t know if he should be offended by this, from being told he doesn’t know how to enjoy himself. After all, there are plenty of things Adam does to unwind, such as rereading his favorite classics, taking long walks outside of campus, picking up extra shifts at the shop, getting a head start on more difficult essays –

Okay, so, maybe his idea of relaxing isn’t what most people would consider conducive to the goal, maybe Adam doesn’t know how to let go, maybe he does need a weekend away to do something he normally wouldn’t.

This still wasn’t enough to persuade Adam, as he has a multitude of reasons going would be a bad idea, most of which he keeps secret and tucked close to his heart.

What eventually sways him is Blue getting involved. Blue Sargent is what Adam believes should be a good match for him. She’s the right amount of wild but practical, uncaring how the world views her, vocal about her beliefs, and prepared to fight for them. Contradictory to Adam in nearly every way and opposites are supposed to attract, right?

Plus, she’s ridiculously pretty, the sort of girl he’s always found appealing.

They’ve danced around each other for a while at this point, going on dates, sometimes holding hands, sharing mostly chaste kisses here and there in the privacy of his dorm or her tiny, one-bedroom apartment. Never going too far, never committing, not even discussing the idea of making things official.

Which is why it surprised Adam when Blue suggested they should make this trip into a test to see if their compatibility goes past the small blips of time they spend together regularly. If they manage three whole days then, surely, they are a good match. It seemed logical to him so, of course, Adam agreed, and now here he stands amid a busy campground, helping his friends and would-be girlfriend erect a tent scarcely big enough to fit all five of them.

“Yep, this is definitely going to be a tight squeeze,” Gillian says, stepping back to assess the result of their combined efforts.

Fletcher laughs, a jovial sound Adam decided early on in their friendship he’s quite fond of. “A weekend spent cuddling with my closest pals, oh, how tragic. How will I ever survive?”

This incites a short-lived bout of giggles from everyone except Adam, who can’t stop thinking about all of them cramped together, unwanted human contact imposed upon him, with nowhere he can run off to and hide if he needs to be alone.

A shudder runs through him.

Guess the portable toilets will have to do if he gets desperate.

Blue knocks her shoulder gently into Adam's side. “Are you okay?” She asks, looking up at him with an easy-going smile. “You’re being awfully quiet.”

“I’m always quiet,” Adam offers his own, small smile in return. “You know this.”

“Yeah, I guess. But, like, extra quiet and zone-ier than usual,” Blue says, humming softly. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Adam is tempted to tell her the truth. He doesn’t want to be here, this place isn’t for people like him, or any of them, really, and also can they spend the next few days in the tent, possibly making out, instead of being stuck in a crowd of people who don’t care if they live or die?

But he holds his tongue, silently considering the nearby campsites virtually piled on top of one another, and very acutely regrets his decision to come along.

Blue reaches up to wave her hand in front of his face, “Earth to Adam, you’re spacing out on me again.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s nothin’, really.” A lie, the kind Adam deems acceptable since he’s sparing Blue’s feelings. He's fibbed about worse things, especially if lies by omission count. “I’m just thinking about how I don’t do too well in crowds.”

“We can stay on the outskirts,” Blue suggests, especially gentle, more like she's handling a cornered animal than a human, as if she knows what is really going on in his head.

It’s indisputably a coincidence, no chance Blue has any inkling of an idea of what's actually happening. Adam spends a lot of energy keeping most of himself well-guarded and smothered behind his polite, southern-boy façade, making it so he’s more or less unknowable. Even those closest to him, like Blue, have only scraped the surface of each multifaceted fragment Adam Parrish is comprised of.

“Yeah,” he agrees after a beat. “I’d like that, I think.”

Blue grabs his hand, small fingers twining together with his larger ones, the gesture comforting from its ease. He imagines this is how it’s supposed to be liking someone, his feelings uncomplicated and sensible and just a little bit exciting without being intimidating.

“We should join the others before they plan everything without us,” She suggests while giving his hand a squeeze.

Adam takes a moment then nods, allowing Blue to drag him over to the rest of their group.

No matter how hard Adam tries paying attention, his mind wanders regardless. He thinks more about how much he would prefer not to be at a festival, such a place existing as if to torment him specifically with its loud sounds and his inability to blend in amongst the masses. Here he is an interloper, a sepia photograph in a pile of other, wonderfully vibrant ones, a robot compared to the free spirits surrounding him. He’ll never be like them, he doesn’t know if he would want to if given the opportunity, yet something about it bothers him, nonetheless.

Their strategy discussion for the coming days goes on. As the minutes tick by, all Adam wants is to melt into something indistinguishable from the grass beneath him.

There’s no way this is going to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Come say hi to me at:
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://har-graves.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also thank you to [Xenoglossia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncharredwings/pseuds/xenoglossia) for beta-ing my stuff :)
> 
> We are going to have a little fun and name each chapter after EDM songs <3 First chapter is, obviously, the very classic Better Off Alone by Alice Deejay


	2. Without a Trace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Say the words and you'll be fine  
>  I fell for you, what have I become?  
> I can't imagine the truth  
> Let me  
> Let me fall, fall away  
> Without a trace, without a trace_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drug use starts...now.

Kavinsky is not kidding when he says he’s charging a premium. Ronan is down nearly all the pocket money he brought along, which should have lasted the whole festival with some leftover, and now he’ll have to hit up an ATM sooner rather than later. Those exorbitant fees are going to fuck him over more than Kavinsky just has with none of the fun rewards.

Oh well.

At least he has enough shit to make a draft horse roll, if he were so inclined.

Also, lucky for him, Kavinsky has everything needed to split up the batch and is willing to stay while he handles it, so long as Ronan lets him talk his ear off about whatever inane bullshit comes to mind. It’s mostly nonsense or jokes about his relationship with Gansey.

Initially, Ronan entertains Kavinsky because he’s somewhat used to the invasive questions about the sex life he doesn’t have, and he would rather not get into a fight on the first day.

“So, which one of you swallows and which one spits?” Kavinsky asks and takes a hit from his vape.

“Stupid question, we both swallow. Waste not, want not, all that jazz. Next," Ronan says without batting an eye.

Amused by this, Kavinsky snorts, “heh, jazz.”

Ronan figures this doesn't warrant a reply and stares down as he weighs another capsule, gaze narrowing at the cloud of stupid vape smoke obscuring his view. “Don’t do that, shitbag, you’re gonna throw off the scale.”

Kavinsky leans over to get a closer look. There’s a weird choppiness to how he moves, a perpetual motion machine confined in a flimsy human body. He pulls from the rig and cackles as does exactly what he was told not to, more vapor tiding across the digital scale. Ronan’s lip twitches but he practices control, sucks in air, tells himself beating Kavinsky’s face in like old times isn’t worth it.

“You think they’re _that_ sensitive, man?”

“They are.”

“Okay, sure. I’m fucking bored. Next question. Who tops? You or Dicky?”

His eyes roll at the question. “For someone who is supposed to be an adult, you have a very fundamental misunderstanding of how gay sex works.”

“Do I get credit for trying?” Kavinsky leans back to begin tapping incessantly on his knees.

“Fuck no.” Ronan is certain he’s not making any effort; in fact, he’s doing the opposite.

Kavinsky hisses out a muted, “Harsh.”

Rather than reward him with a response, Ronan concentrates on finishing so they will be done quicker. He can hear the enticing thump of heavy bass coming from the venue, calling to him like his own, personalized siren’s song, his nerves feeling as if they are beginning to fray. Right now, nothing is more important than getting out there, finally letting loose, and losing himself wholly in the music.

Fairly quickly, Kavinsky seems unable to take the silent treatment and starts to stand. “I’m gonna go bother Richard,” he says, brushing non-existent dust from his knees. “Maybe he’ll tell me who’s the pitcher and who’s the catcher.”

“You seriously need new material, man.” Ronan has no idea why Kavinsky is hung up on him and Gansey having sex, a strange fascination he should have long since grown out after high school. “We aren’t fucking and it’s fucking weird how obsessed you are with the idea.”

Kavinsky shrugs, bored and unaffected by his words. “The burden of proof is on you.”

“Like fuck it is.”

“Whatever. Hurry the fuck up, Lynch, you aren’t my only customer. You’re not even my _favorite_ one, y’know.”

His reply is a swift middle finger

He leaves Ronan alone to work. Through the thin nylon of the tent, he listens to Kavinsky attempt starting a conversation by insulting Gansey, then being promptly shut down with a, “Go bother someone your own age, Joseph.”

"We're the same age, Dickbag."

"Don't remind me."

No further tries at communication are made.

It’s not much longer for Ronan to finish separating, weighing, and capsuling everything in somewhat equal amounts. There is an ample amount for two people over three days, just in case, with the one problem left being he has no way of testing the crystalline powder to make sure it’s what he’s been promised. Not only does he have to trust Kavinsky, which is difficult on its own, but his supplier too.

Ronan may very well end up ingesting some crazy, unsafe substance; it’s a gamble he’ll have to accept. Probably good he’s the type to enjoy a little, or a _lot_ of, potential danger. If anything, Ronan thrives on it, often finding the moments where he could die are also the ones he feels most alive.

He doesn’t have a death wish, that’s not it. Instead, Ronan has what he might consider a _not-living_ wish, best described as a burning desire to cease existing entirely, without the hassle of taking matters into his own hands. Normally it’s barely more than the softest whisper in the back of his mind, easily ignored.

 _So what_? Ronan regularly thinks to soothe himself. _Everyone feels like this, nobody actually_ wants _to be alive all the time. Anybody who says they do is an idiot or a freak. Possibly both_.

And on the rare occasion the feeling becomes too loud for Ronan to withstand, an incessant hum turning into a deafening roar inside his head, he permits himself something unsavory to quiet the noise.

Maybe a weekend of self-indulgence will ease the buzzing before it grows near intolerable again.

*

“I think we should discuss a few ground rules.”

They’re standing in the short security line when Gansey decides to drop his ridiculous proposal. Ronan is almost impressed by how cunning of a plan it is, bringing up rules during a time where walking away would raise suspicion and how, this instant, that’s the last thing he needs.

Trap and wrangle him in, as if he’s a feral creature.

Since Ronan has a baggy of contraband tucked neatly into his waistband, naturally, he would prefer not to deal with any belligerent, wannabe cops tonight if he doesn’t have to. Meaning there is absolutely nothing he can do to stop this from happening.

Excellent work, really. Props given. Two points to Gansey, a whopping zero to Lynch.

“Why?” Ronan asks, looking forward with his chin tilted up in a semi-conscious effort at being intimidating.

His appearance does most of the heavy lifting in that regard, anyway.

A freshly buzzed scalp leaves only the thinnest layer of dark, prickly hair, a paltry suggestion of its existence. Every expression to cross his already striking features hones them further, until they’re razor-sharp, and serve as a warning sign stating, _stay away if you know what’s good for you_.

The way Ronan wears his black t-shirt emphasizes his inherent severity, rolled up sleeves exposing broad, powerful shoulders covered in a composition of dark imagery from his sprawling back tattoo, which can seemingly change depending on the angle and the time of day it’s viewed, as well as his turbulent moods. Generally agreed-upon interpretations of the piece are comprised of varying descriptions including claws, beaks, wings, rolling eyes, gaping maws, winding vines, and ambiguously Celtic knots.

Finishing off the outfit, a pair of ripped-up, black designer jeans tucked haphazardly into ankle-length Doc Martens, with his five-strap leather bracelet wrapped around his right wrist.

Standing next to him, Gansey exists as roughly the polar opposite of Ronan, like he’s been put there to balance him out. His brown locks have been coiffed with intention and also, Ronan guesses, some sort of pomade. Somehow, he manages a simultaneous appearance of both boyish wonder and maturity. Even here, in a place where he could have gotten away with wearing anything, Gansey still chooses to adorn himself in an obnoxiously bright, pink polo, tan linen shorts, and disgusting boat shoes.

The shoes are probably the worst part of his whole outfit. Many days, Ronan wishes he could snatch them off his feet and burn them in front of Gansey’s face. Today is no different.

“Because, Ronan, I think there is some benefit to us starting off on the same page,” Gansey says with no real bite to his voice. “Is that truly such an odd concept?”

Ronan grits his teeth. Calms himself by thinking of boat shoes on fire.

Just because he cannot escape doesn’t mean he has to be perfectly amicable about this.

“Yes, it is,” he replies. “Festivals aren’t about _rules_ , Gansey, they’re basically the antithesis of them. You’re supposed to go with the flow, not,” he gestures at Gansey’s polo, “whatever the fuck it is you’re doing.”

Gansey is unbothered by this, years of offhanded remarks about his fashion sense giving him a thick skin. “A couple small ones? Please? I’m not trying to ruin your fun, I promise,” he entreats, glancing at Ronan with a look akin to a puppy begging for treats.

Goddammit.

Another point to team Gansey. Three to zero.

He crosses his arms against his chest, staring ahead and refusing to give Gansey his full attention. “Fine. Let’s hear it, but I reserve the right to shoot them down for any reason.”

“Okay,” Gansey sucks in a deep breath, hesitant. “You need to keep your phone on you at all times.”

Ronan grunts his assent. Easy enough; he’s not being told to check it at specific intervals, which is where the real issue lies.

Emboldened by this, Gansey continues, “And have it _charged_. What if we lose each other but you left it at camp, or the battery is dead?”

“We chose a meeting place. Simple.”

Gansey hums in thought. “Well, we should have one of those, _too_.”

As they step closer to the checkpoint Ronan feels his shoulders tense. He’s never gotten along with any sort of authority figure and there’s something grating about the overinflated ego of a festival guard that pisses him off.

“The giving tree,” Ronan offers the first place he can remember.

“Where is that?”

“Uh…I don’t know.”

“Why would you suggest it, then?” Gansey stares at Ronan, who is purposefully looking off in the distance.

Ronan shifts his weight between his heels and toes, pausing to move forward, starting up again when they stop. “Because I _will_. Soon. Trust me.”

Gansey doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t have to be. Once they step into the forest, Ronan will drag his ass to said location. But, before this, they must conquer security.

One of the gruff men waves at Ronan. “Next in line. You.”

Ronan bites his tongue and gulps down the growing urge to be an asshole. It’s a difficult feat on its own, made harder by the shitty attitude of the man motioning for him to come forward, but Ronan forces himself to behave because he knows what’s waiting for him on the other side of those gates.

Freedom from not only the harsh realities of the world outside but the confines of his own mind, too.

Swallow a pill and allow the rush of chemicals to take control.

He stalks forward, chin up and shoulders squared, halting in front of the guard with a snarl of a smile managing to be nasty and obliging in equal measure. It’s a skill Ronan mastered years ago in an endeavor at being decent enough not to cause problems, when needed, without contradicting his unapproachable nature.

“Whoa, you’re a pretty scary-looking guy,” The guard says with a laugh. He starts to carelessly pat Ronan down. “You get that a lot?”

“All the fucking time, man. Non-fucking-stop,” He answers and looks to Gansey, receiving the same treatment beside him, giving him a toothy grin. Ronan knows Gansey gets what he's trying to convey when he sighs and turns away.

Feeling proud of himself, his mouth curls up wider. All the while, the man proceeds with his halfhearted body search, his hands not bothering to really touch. His motions give the impression of trying without doing so, not even getting _close_ to the tiny bag stashed in an impromptu pocket. There’s a split second where Ronan thinks not all security guards are bastards, but he’ll reserve judgment until _after_ the fest.

All cleared, he steps in through the gate, and instantly everything is different. The dull kick of bass from the nearest stage gets a little more distinguishable from other sounds, drawing him in with its allure, promising release in the form of a never-ending rhythm.

Trees sprawl out around him, appearing quite typical at present, but will soon become lit up with a vibrant and wide range of colors come nightfall. If he closes his eyes and listens carefully, shutting out the loud drone from thousands of people prattling on and the call of booming music, maybe he will hear the rustle of secrets through leaves.

Ronan shuts his lids, inhales through his nose, in the middle of centering himself when a slap on his back interrupts him.

“So,” Gansey says, palm pressed to the spot between Ronan’s shoulder-blades. “This is it, huh?”

Air leaves Ronan as a soft hiss, the tension he’d been carrying going with it. “This is it,” he repeats, standing unmoving while a diverse crowd flows around them, looking up at the iconic gate greeting them.

 _Cabeswater Forest_ , it reads underneath a set of dark, metal wings, its raven motif continuing onto the pillars on either side.

Gansey’s interest sticks to the gateway, studying it wordlessly, attention shifting towards Ronan. He raises his eyebrows and says, “Shall we?”

“Fuck yeah.” Ronan is ready, has been since he climbed into the Camaro at the Barns.

“I have a couple more rules I’d like us to discuss as we go.”

Ronan groans, “Ugh. Fine. Whatever, let’s get it over with.”

As they head through the entrance, sticking to the beaten path, he zones out while Gansey spouts off his terms for the coming days.

Ronan’s mind is elsewhere, lost among the trees. Intriguing art installations shaped like wild animals, strange geometric forms, exquisite flowers, and nonsensical designs, intended to drive introspection, capture him. He allows himself to dissolve in the mob of festival-goers as they flock to certain areas and spread out from others. Music drags them between stages and Ronan passes time by escaping in the beat.

Soon, night will come to breathe life into not only the forest, but him, too.

*

A knot of apprehension forms in Ronan’s gut.

It begins as little more than a slight jittery sensation, very similar to how it feels when he’s going to do something he knows is stupid and impulsive. Like his human form is restricting his potential, like he’s so much more and, if he doesn’t escape, he’ll burst into thousands of tiny pieces.

Nothing to worry over, all totally normal and indicative of a come-up.

Right on time, too, as darkness settles over the forest only to be banished by an ocean of multihued neon illuminating it back up.

The pit in Ronan’s stomach drops and disintegrates, warmth spreading down into the very tips of his extremities. A telling surge of unusual energy follows immediately after, filling him in a way that makes standing still a feat of immeasurable restraint.

Ronan bobs his head to the music. Not enough.

He fidgets with his bracelet, growing increasingly antsy by the second, eventually peering at Gansey. There’s a beer in his hand, which is the single substance he agreed to indulge in despite Ronan’s offers, and he’s barely sipped from it over the last hour.

A need to move gnaws at Ronan, painful in its insistence.

This music is too slow, too subdued, Ronan thinks he may actually go crazy if he’s forced to listen any longer.

Why is he here again?

Not here, as in the festival. No, _here_ , at this particular act, when he could be anywhere else?

Someplace where the crowd is rowdy, the bass is heavy in his face, and the amount of lasers flashing from the stage is downright offensive to his eyes.

Ronan leans over to talk in Gansey’s ear. “I’m gonna walk around,” he says and pulls away.

Gansey’s brows draw in, visibly confused. Unlike Ronan, he doesn’t get closer to speak, but there’s no reason to. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, I just – ” Ronan pauses, shaking his head. “I want to explore on my own, okay? I’ll be back.”

“Ronan.”

How Gansey utters his name makes it sound as if he’s saying something else altogether. A warning, _don’t do anything stupid_ , or perhaps it’s more of a plea, _please be careful_.

Whichever one it is, Ronan decides to ignore it. He reaches into his pocket to take out his phone, wiggling it in the air for Gansey to see. They exchange looks, Ronan gives his very best grin and Gansey stares hard, right into his eyes for a long second, then sighs.

It’s not express permission but Ronan wasn’t looking for that, he only needed assurance Gansey isn’t going to trail after him.

Once his phone is shoved away, Ronan claps a hand on Gansey’s shoulder, giving a tight squeeze. This earns him a new reaction, one where Gansey purses his lips together, hazel gaze searching along Ronan’s face, his reluctance clear as day.

Ronan doesn’t give him a chance to put thought to word. He leaves without hesitation, hastily putting distance between him and not solely Gansey, but the entire situation.

At first, he wanders, aimless.

Everything is aglow, colorfully illuminated paths, and trees, and people, and strange structures which appeared at best vaguely interesting in the day are now unlike anything he has ever seen. The self-aware side of Ronan knows it’s the hefty dose he took earlier hitting him with an intensity so profound it’s almost a religious experience, and the other, more hopeful part of him, wants to pretend the forest really is magical.

That could _also_ be the MDMA’s fault.

Ronan isn’t going to delve too deep into his own thoughts, not tonight, he didn’t drop so he could get all introspective. If that had been his goal, he would have taken something else, like shrooms or acid. Molly is for having fun, losing himself, and getting out of his own miserable head on special occasions.

Okay.

Deep breaths.

He’ll be fine, he just has to find the right setting to roll, _stat_.

More roaming through the forest brings out the muted sound of subwoofers pumping nearby. Ronan pursues like a parched man catching sight of an oasis, or an Evangelist in search of the profane.

Breaking through the trees, Ronan finds himself at the edge of a large gathering. Music crashes into him all at once, making each hair on the back of his neck stick up, the thunderous and heady bass permeating every inch of his body, filling him with a feeling so fucking _good_ it’s frankly sickening.

Everyone moves as if part of a single wave, swaying, shifting, twirling, hopping, their feet following the same rhythm in their own, unique ways. Some have more skill than others, but that sort of thing doesn’t matter here, only having fun and freeing oneself from the confines of everyday life.

Ronan weaves through the flock, pausing as songs swell then drop into something heavy. He dances and laughs with strangers when eye contact is made; a connection forms between them because they are here, experiencing this fleeting moment together, sharing their exhilaration without the usual boundaries, and they are all alive, alive, _alive_.

He soon finds himself a spot where the stage is in plain sight, set between the effigy of identical feminine profiles awash in blue light, stimulating visuals flashing on the huge screen and rainbow-hued lasers sweep in and out and in again, perfectly timed with the beat.

This is it. This is exactly what he needed to calm the growing roar in his head, to remember why it is he’s still clinging to life.

Momentarily entranced by the visually and melodiously impressive display, Ronan isn’t prepared for someone bumping into him. It isn’t the light knock of a passerby, but a full-on slam to his side. Normally, this would piss him off, make him react accordingly, ending with him telling the offender to piss off or shoving back. All it does now is surprise Ronan, the resentment he carries in his day-to-day life eaten up by his roll.

Ronan catches a quick peek of the man, seeing dust-colored hair and a hunched posture, before he stumbles off. No apology offered, not even a mumbled, _my bad, man_.

Whatever. No big deal, happens all the fucking time.

His jaw clenches, a side effect of the molly rather than his mood. He looks at the stage, bringing his wrist up to aggressively grind worn leather straps between molars.

No matter how he tries to ignore it, to enjoy the show, the image of slumped shoulders remains burned in Ronan’s mind. It’s a bitter reminder of bad trips and impending panic attacks handled mostly alone; though, sometimes, with the help of friendly strangers.

Maybe Ronan should be that stranger, release the karmic energy he has absorbed over years of partying back into the universe by being nice to someone else for once in his damn life. Maybe the guy is by himself, took a strange pill or tab, and Ronan could be the difference between an enjoyable experience and spending a night in the med tent.

He tears his attention away from the captivating show, glancing to his right. There he is, standing a few feet off, arms curled tightly across his chest, long fingers rubbing his own tanned and freckled limbs absently. From his profile alone, the vacant, panicked look in his gaze is palpable.

Ronan feels a mix of conflicting emotions, starting with sympathy since he’s _been there_ , tripping out alone at a festival with nothing to ground him, which swiftly becomes intrigue as he realizes how inexplicably, otherworldly attractive he is. It’s not just aesthetically, either; although his high cheekbones, stark against the relative softness of his other features, down-turned mouth pliant and unbearably tempting, and lanky, angular build apparent even underneath ill-fitting clothing, definitely sends a guilty rush of blood straight to Ronan’s groin.

There's something _different_ about the man, a fey-like quality to him, unapproachable and overwhelming and alluring and potentially dangerous.

He wants to touch, run his knuckles gently over speckled cheeks, brush the pad of his thumb along his soft-looking bottom lip, curl fingers underneath his chin, carefully guide his mouth open, and -

The wandering thoughts bring his already racing pulse rocketing up, increasing until it seems nearly fatal, no longer syncing to the throbbing bass.

 _Now is really not the time for this_ , Ronan tells himself. _Also, it's pretty fucking weird checking this guy out when he's clearly on the verge of a breakdown, isn't it_?

Stepping closer, Ronan takes note of the sweat beading on the man’s temple, his dusty locks clinging to moist skin. Completely blown-out pupils render irises nearly black, a muscle twitches on his jawline from how firmly his teeth clench, every sign pointing towards the usage of a stimulant.

Pulling a mostly full bottle of water from his pocket, Ronan holds it out. “Hey. Drink.”

Nothing.

No indication whatsoever he’s been heard.

It might be the purple earplug Ronan sees but, no, he’s never had an issue hearing with those personally. Nor are they near enough to the speakers for this to be a problem. If Ronan had to guess, he’s probably rolling absolute dick, there’s no other explanation.

That, or, he's being ignored.

This might be where Ronan would typically give up, no use talking to or helping someone off their fucking face already. He thinks _med tent_ and edges in anyway, until he’s close enough to knock the proffered bottle into the man’s arm.

Ronan regrets his choice when the guy startles, tensing until it seems as if he may snap in half. His head shifts in an oddly disjointed way, eyes wide, finally noticing his presence. He gives Ronan a _look_ , utterly indecipherable, lips moving but no words coming out.

Muttering under his breath, the man glances away and back. He keeps his face tilted somewhat down, hugging himself like his life depends on it.

“What do you want?” He says at last, words choppy, harsh, and tone standoffish yet, somehow, deep and lovely, with the slightest hint of a drawl.

Oh.

 _Fuck_.

Unable to figure out what to say in return, they stare at each other, while the music builds towards another drop. When it happens like a clash of sound around them, the man sucks in a pathetic, trembling breath.

Ronan’s heart wrenches in his chest at the sad sight this stranger makes, he’s scared, confused, the lines on his face telling of how close he is to cracking under pressure.

He needs do _something_.

So, Ronan does the only thing he can think of. He tilts his chin up, puts on his most serious face, and says, “Fucking hell, man, I want to _help_. Or would you prefer to freak the fuck out alone?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Come say hi to me at [My Tumblr](https://har-graves.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> If you follow me on Tumblr, you’ll see I did *not* cut my horny Ronan description. We’ll call this author POV ; ) I apologize for no Adam (except the very end) in this chapter but, do not fear, for chapter 3 will be catered to your Adam Parrish POV needs! <3
> 
> Chapter name: 
> 
> Without a Trace – Kill the Noise Feat Stalking Gia (Kill the Noise & Virtual Riot Remix)


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